The House At Sea’s End

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘What’s this picture?’ asks Judy, pulling out a photo of a group of men standing proudly beside a boat. Hugh is older here but the glasses and the anxious expression are the same.

  ‘Oh that must be the lifeboat. He was a keen lifeboatman.’

  ‘At Broughton Sea’s End?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There isn’t a lifeboat any more, is there? I think someone told me that they can’t use the ramp these days.’

  Joyce Reynolds shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s a weird out-ofthe-way place, Broughton. When they were little we used to take the children on the beach there sometimes but I haven’t been for years. Uncle Hugh didn’t like the beach at Broughton. He said it had an unwholesome atmosphere. That was the way he used to talk.’

  Nelson examines the photograph. ‘Did your uncle ever talk about Jack Hastings?’ he asks. ‘Or his father, Buster?’

  ‘Is he the man who lives in the big house on the cliff? The one that’s meant to be falling into the sea? No, I can’t remember Uncle Hugh ever mentioning him.’

  ‘Buster Hastings was the captain of the Home Guard.’

  ‘Hugh didn’t talk about the war. He was a bit of a communist, if you want the truth. It was one reason why we didn’t see so much of him. My husband doesn’t stand for that sort of thing.’

  Like Catholicism, thinks Judy. Mr Reynolds’ prejudices are clearly wide ranging.

  ‘Mr Anselm had a fascinating life,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t write a book.’

  ‘Oh, he was always writing,’ says Joyce. ‘I’ve got a pile of the stuff somewhere.’ And she disappears, returning with a bulging cardboard box which she puts into Nelson’s arms.

  Nelson looks inside. The box is full of files, exercise books and letters. He opens a book at random. 5 thJanuary 1963, he reads. I’m no longer entirely convinced about Kennedy. The words are small and neat, written in a thin italic hand. He finds a blurred copy of a letter to Nestlé complaining about their business practices in the Third World. Yours sincerely, Hugh P. Anselm.

  ‘What did the P stand for?’ he asks.

  ‘The what? Oh, in Uncle Hugh’s name? Patrick, I believe.’

  ‘Can I borrow these?’ he asks, indicating the box of papers.

  ‘Keep them,’ says Joyce carelessly. ‘I haven’t got the time for reading.’

  Nor, it seems, has Maria. Archie Whitcliffe’s favourite carer looks rather bewildered as she shows them the list of books left to her in the old man’s will.

  ‘It was very kind of him but’ – she spreads her arms out wide – ‘I’m afraid my English isn’t good enough. And these, they sound difficult. ‘

  Maria doesn’t have the actual books yet (or the money also left to her) but the solicitors have forwarded a list of titles.

  They are sitting in Maria’s cramped Norwich bedsit. The place is scrupulously tidy but extremely bare – just a double bed, a table and two chairs. She must share the bed with her little boy, thinks Judy. The only evidence of the child is a plastic box of toys and a teddy bear on the bed. Maria’s bedside table is an old black trunk on which are displayed pictures of a smiling elderly couple and a large statue of the Virgin Mary. No television, no radio. How does she entertain the kid? wonders Judy. With the toys neatly stacked away in the box? With the statue of the universal mother? Maria says that Archie gave her money to buy him toys. What did she buy?

  ‘Books,’ is the surprising answer. Maria opens the trunk and brings out pristine editions of Winnie-the-Pooh, Peter Rabbit and Babar the elephant.

  ‘We read them at night,’ says Maria. ‘I want him to have a proper start in life. George is very smart, very good at reading.’

  ‘Did Archie leave you all his books?’ asks Judy. She imagines the old man and the pretty young mother sitting together, talking about Agatha Christie and Babar and the future mapped out for the surprisingly named George. Maybe Archie wanted George to have his library.

  ‘No,’ says Maria, looking worried again. ‘Just a few.’

  ‘Particular favourites?’

  ‘No. I never heard of most of them.’

  ‘Why do you think he left them to you?’ asks Judy.

  ‘I don’t know. I used to buy books for him, from charity shops. Maybe this is to say thank you.’

  Shrugging, she hands Judy the list. Nelson reads over her shoulder.

  The Third Truth by Kurt Aust

  Love Lies Bleeding by Edmund Crispin

  Evil Under the Sun by Agatha Christie

  The Fourth Assassin by Omar Yussef

  One Step Behind by Henning Mankell

  The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sherlock Holmes

  Sea Change by Robert B. Parker

  Lost Light by Michael Connelly

  ‘And these titles don’t mean anything to you?’ asks Nelson. He only recognises one of the books, the Agatha Christie. He thinks he’s seen it on telly. Oh, and The Hound of the Baskervilles. He knew a dog handler once with a German Shepherd called Baskerville.

  ‘No,’ says Maria, her eyes filling. ‘It was kind of him though. He was always very kind.’

  It was kind, thinks Nelson as they descend the gloomy staircase, smelling of cabbage and worse. But more money would have been more useful. Enough to buy a proper bed for the boy and maybe a TV. Well, perhaps they’re first editions and will be worth millions. Maria deserves a break. The exorbitant fees at Greenfields obviously don’t go towards the carers’ wages.

  Outside he takes a deep breath and sees Judy is doing the same.

  ‘Not much of a life is it?’ he says.

  ‘No.’ Judy chews her lip. ‘When I think of all the things my sister’s kids have.’

  ‘Most kids today have too many things,’ says Nelson opening the car door. He thinks of the hundreds of toys he has thrown out or recycled over the years: games lacking half the pieces, Barbies with missing limbs, electrical gadgets ignored after the first thrill of acquisition, the unread books.

  ‘I wonder about George’s father,’ says Judy. ‘He obviously doesn’t help much.’

  Nelson starts the car, forgets that he has left it in gear and curses as the Mercedes jerks forwards. Christ, why are people always talking about fathers? Johnson’s been funny all day, come to think of it. The way she kept looking at the wedding photos at Joyce Reynolds’ house and now getting all misty eyed about the little boy. He knows she’s getting married and all that but she’s got to learn to keep emotion out of policing.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ asks Judy, bracing herself as he takes a corner.

  ‘Sea’s End House,’ says Nelson. ‘I think it’s time we asked Mr Hastings a few more questions.’

  ‘Bone has both a mineral and an organic content in the ratio of two to one.’

  Ruth is addressing a motley group of students in the university’s smaller lecture theatre. It’s a stuffy room and one or two of her audience look almost asleep. She must make more of an effort to engage them but the subject, The Dating and Treatment of Bones, is not exactly an exhilarating one, even to her. The trouble with the MA course is that a lot of the students come from overseas, mostly Asia, and English isn’t their first language. By the time that she gets onto decalcification and fossilisation, she senses that she will have left most of them behind.

  She presses a key on her PowerPoint. Like most academics, Ruth is secretly happier with handwritten slides.

  ‘This is an example from the Mary Rose. Anaerobic silt is excellent for preservation of bones.’

  Unlike the bodies at Broughton Sea’s End, buried in sand. Did whoever buried them know that, over time, their bones would crumble into nothingness? Yet, in Ruth’s experience, evil has a habit of finding its way to the surface. The evil will lie waiting beneath the earth.

  The last slide. ‘Cremation destroys the organic content of bone. Prehistoric cremations weren’t hot enough to destroy the bone altogether. Flesh was burnt away but the bone remained – becoming white and fragile b
ut mostly retaining its shape. These bone fragments provide valuable evidence for forensic archaeologists. Any questions?’

  One interesting question about mummification and Ruth is heading back to her office, just time for a quick sandwich before her two o’clock tutorial. Having Tatjana in the house has cut down on the amount of time that she can spend working at home. It also means that she has to do some proper food shopping. She’ll go to the supermarket after she’s collected Kate. It’s a hassle but Kate loves sitting in the baby seat of the trolley, smiling at the other shoppers and trying to eat cereal boxes.

  It has been a strain, in some ways, having Tatjana to stay. The cottage is really too small for two adults. Ruth remembers how when she and Peter split up, amidst all the feelings of sadness, loss and guilt, there was also a distinct relief that she could now spread her books all over the sitting room floor and go to the loo with the door open. She and Tatjana seem to spend a lot of their time apologising to each other and waiting for the other one to go first down the stairs. Whenever Kate wakes in the night Ruth is full of guilt that Tatjana’s sleep has been disturbed and when, after a hard day’s work, she would really like to slob out and watch Coronation Street, she has to pretend to be interested in reruns of Time Team on Channel 4. Still, Tatjana has started her teaching which means she is out all day. And some things have been nice – having someone to talk to about work, cooking proper meals, having an excuse to open a bottle of wine with supper, having someone to laugh with when Flint gets stuck in the cat flap.

  Ruth grabs a sandwich from the canteen and rushes back to her office before she can become trapped in a long discussion with one of her colleagues about exam grades or Prehistoric burial practices. She also keeps a weather eye out for Cathbad. She’s fond of Cathbad and she appreciates the interest he takes in Kate, but recently he has made one too many references to Nelson being Kate’s spiritual father. She knows Cathbad suspects something but he’ll never know the truth unless she tells him and, if she’s honest, sometimes the urge to tell someone is very strong. When she was first pregnant, she quite liked the idea of hugging a secret to herself, like the baby growing inside her. But now, sometimes she wonders how she ever thought she’d have the strength to get through Kate’s whole babyhood, her whole life, without ever telling anyone who her father is.

  Of course, one day she’ll have to tell Kate herself, but by then who knows what will have happened? Nelson’s daughters will have left home, it’ll no longer be so important to protect them, perhaps Nelson himself will have left Michelle… But she stamps firmly on that thought, seeing Nelson at the naming day party helping his wife on with her coat, Michelle laughing against him. Nelson has never in his life looked at her like that. She just has to face it; he loves Michelle, he doesn’t love her. And, she tells herself, she wouldn’t want to live with Nelson anyway. He’s too sexist, too Neanderthal, way too bossy. Good in bed though, she’s shocked to find herself adding.

  She hurries across the courtyard to the Natural Sciences Department. It’s a bitterly cold day, icy winds and the occasional eddy of snow. She’s amazed that, even in these conditions, a couple has still found time to linger under the covered walkway that leads to the main building, kissing and wrapping their arms around each other. As she gets nearer, she recognises Dieter Eckhart in his green Germanic coat and Clara Hastings, slim and girlish in jeans, with her hair in a ponytail. They are so engrossed that they don’t notice Ruth and she hardly wants to engage them in conversation. When she is safely inside, she looks back from a first floor window. They are still standing there, with the snow whirling around them, locked in a passionate embrace. But, as Ruth watches, Dieter Eckhart raises his head and looks straight at her. His eyes are as pale and cold as the snow.

  The wind is even wilder at Broughton Sea’s End. As Nelson and Judy cross the bridge, they have to bend double to avoid being blown over. The snow has turned into stinging sleet, causing Judy to pull her woolly cap down over her eyes (Nelson never wears a hat). Below them the sea thunders against the rocks. How can Sea’s End House withstand many more poundings like this, thinks Judy. The furthest turret seems almost at the edge of the cliff, the Union Jack whipping furiously to and fro. I wouldn’t like to sleep in this house, she decides. The wind and waves are so loud that she wonders whether anyone will hear their knock on the door, although Nelson leaves the brass lion’s head positively vibrating.

  But, after a few minutes, the door is opened and a dark-haired woman is smiling at them.

  ‘DCI Nelson.’ Nelson doesn’t smile back. ‘I rang to say I was on my way.’

  ‘Oh yes, hallo,’ says the woman. ‘I’m Stella, Jack’s wife.’

  She is charming, thinks Judy. Or maybe she’d be predisposed in anyone’s favour after they’d ushered her in from the freezing cliff top and installed her in a kitchen with an open fire and twinkling pots and pans. There’s even a sweet old lady knitting by the fire to complete the picture.

  ‘My mother-in-law, Irene,’ says Stella. ‘Mother,’ she raises her voice slightly. ‘It’s the policeman come back to talk to us.’

  Judy suppresses a smile at the thought of Nelson being reduced to ‘the policeman’, like a character in an Agatha Christie play. Irene smiles sweetly at Judy.

  ‘You’re not the same girl that came before.’

  ‘No,’ says Nelson, rather quickly. ‘That was Dr Galloway, the forensic archaeologist. This is Detective Sergeant Johnson.’

  Judy says hallo and accepts an offer of tea. So the boss came here with Ruth, did he?

  ‘Shall we stay in the kitchen?’ Stella Hastings is saying. ‘It’s much warmer than the drawing room. Jack won’t be long. He’s taken the dogs out.’

  Drawing room, thinks Judy. She doesn’t know if she’s ever heard anyone calling it that in real life. She shoots a glance at Nelson who raises his eyebrows.

  Stella puts the kettle on and Irene starts arranging cups and saucers. The fire hisses and the sleet hammers against the windows. Judy takes a proffered shortbread and hopes that the interview takes a nice long time. She has no desire to be out on the road again with an increasingly grumpy Nelson. She hopes that Jack Hastings doesn’t come back too soon. She can’t imagine anyone taking a walk in this weather but she supposes that, if you have dogs, you have to take them out. A good reason for not having dogs.

  She is halfway through her second cup when Jack Hastings appears, accompanied by what seems to be a sea of dogs, but soon resolves itself into two hysterically wagging spaniels.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector. What a pleasant surprise.’

  The irony, if it is irony, doesn’t register on Nelson’s stony face.

  ‘I did say that I’d like another chat.’

  ‘A chat? Yes, fine. Fine. Chat away.’

  Hastings stands in front of the fire and rubs his hands together. It’s a remarkably defensive pose, thinks Judy, like a stag at bay or, perhaps, a politician facing questions across the floor of the house.

  ‘Mr Hastings,’ begins Nelson, ‘last time I was here we talked about the Home Guard, about any members that might still be alive. You mother mentioned Archie Whitcliffe. He used to send you Christmas cards, apparently.’

  Hastings looks over at his mother, who is making another pot of tea, deep in concentration.

  ‘I remember…’ he says hesitantly.

  ‘Mr Whitcliffe was living at the Greenfields Care Home. Did you ever visit him there?’

  ‘No.’ Hastings looks bemused now.

  ‘What about Hugh Anselm? We spoke about him on the phone.’

  Suddenly Irene Hastings puts down the teapot and bustles purposefully from the room. Nelson wonders if he ought to call her back. She’s the one who remembers the war years, after all. Jack Hastings does not seem to have noticed his mother’s departure.

  ‘Hugh Anselm,’ he says. ‘I don’t remember the name.’

  ‘You mother mentioned him. He was one of the younger members of the Home Guard. Archie Whitcliffe wa
s another.’

  ‘She has wonderful recall of those years,’ says Stella, who has briskly taken over the tea-making. ‘But thinking about it can make her upset. They were desperate times here in Broughton, I think.’

  Nelson continues to address Jack Hastings. ‘So you’ve never met Archie Whitcliffe or Hugh Anselm?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Archie Whitcliffe died last week. Hugh Anselm a few weeks earlier.’

  ‘But you can’t think there’s anything suspicious about their deaths, surely? I mean they must have been old men. On the phone you said that you thought this Hugh chap had been murdered.’

  Judy looks at Nelson. It’s unlike the boss to say something like this to an outsider. Never assume, that was Nelson’s mantra. Why would he suddenly start sharing his assumptions with a member of the public, especially someone who appears almost to be a suspect? She remembers the initial investigation into Hugh Anselm’s death. At the time Clough had described it as a tragic accident, there was even a sort of black humour about the situation. ‘Old dear dead in a stairlift.’ Now the everyday deaths of these two old men are taking on a very different aspect and there is something sinister at work in the cosy room, even if Judy can’t work out exactly what it is.

  ‘We’re following several lines of enquiry,’ Nelson replies now, perhaps regretting saying so much in the first place.

  Jack Hastings looks at his wife and it appears as if she is about to speak when Irene comes back into the room. She walks up to Nelson and places a photograph on the table in front of him.

  ‘That’s Archie,’ she says quietly, ‘with his hat at an angle. My Buster used to have a go at him about that. That’s Hugh, with the glasses.’

  Judy peers over Nelson’s shoulder. The picture is in black and white and shows a group of men standing in front of a grey-walled house. This house, she realises. At first glance they look identical, homogenised by baggy, ill-fitting uniforms and by a sort of sepia-tinted nostalgia. But, looking closer, Judy sees that the three men in front are a lot younger than the others. Even in sepia, they look full of life.